What We're Good For
by Elven Ink
Summary: **HIATUS**It's difficult to see a good deed as anything more than a selfish act. Especially when one has been exiled to the outskirts of society. A different spin on the modern day, coffee shop AU. Jorah x Dany


**AN: Just a short first chapter to test the waters and see if there's an audience for a modern AU. Let me know what you think/if I should continue! **

**Chapter One: Spring**

The thing about reality is it's never quite as awe-inspiring as the stories it births. That was the thought that embittered Jorah Mormont's mind as he shoved the latest in a long line of tatty books into his rucksack before setting off once more. Books were easy to come by, with countless stories to while away the hours and numb his senses for a brief moment — a far less deadly way to do the this than some habits he knew circled people like him — but in the end, they always left a bitter taste in his mouth. Something akin to disappointment, but more like _understanding_.

The latest book he'd finished was a rather interesting one on zoology, outlining creatures once thought to be mythological in origin that later turned out to be real. Komodo dragons, proven in 1912, his mind drolled out as he walked and digested what he had read, were thought to be fiction. Devil birds, human-shrieking birds who foretold the death of a loved one...merely a spot-bellied owl.

Never as grand as the tales, suddenly these sweeping creatures of yore were shackled down to the mundane grey of reality. It was quite sad, Jorah thought, as he found a nice enough spot in this new city to sit down in the springtime sun. Propping his bag up against the wall beside him, looping the strap around his foot that he would feel it if someone tried to grab it, Jorah sat himself down and began to unpack his tools.

There was, of course, another creature in the fictional world that was wholly real. In the stories, these poor souls were the spitting image of men and women, trapped in anger or sadness, stuck and unable to move on, with nowhere to call home. Often regarded in fear. Unable to be heard or seen.

"Thank you," Jorah was snapped from his thoughts suddenly and smiled up at the person who had dropped some change in the small, wood-carved tub in front of him. Yes...ghosts were real, Jorah knew this. He watched countless people walk by him, eyes fixed forward, knowing he was there but refusing to see or hear him. Knowing he was suffering, but ignoring it all the same. Ghosts were real, but it was much easier to call them merely _homeless_. Exiles of society, stripped of any hint of being enough for, well, anything in the eyes of others.

It was a strange system silently adopted by the world, Jorah thought to himself as he continued to whittle the small piece of wood he'd found with a nearly-dull pocket-knife. If a woman collapsed on the street, a crowd would quickly gather. If a man fainted in the heat, water would be offered. But these same people would walk by a slumped homeless woman in plain view. Easier to assume they were all drug addicts or alcoholics. Easier to blame them for their own woes.

Occasionally, someone would drop a coin or two towards him, perhaps some food. He was grateful of course, but under no illusion. Such good deeds were not out of concern for him in particular — it was not a sense of caring that brought a fellow person towards him with a handful of change. No, it was the desire to feel good about themselves. For just 1 you too can feel like a good samaritan for the rest of the day! For just 50p you can rest assured that you too are a Good Person!

Yes, he was bitter. But he was yet to find a person to prove this otherwise.

Jorah wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't going to stop these people giving themselves a pat on the back on their way to work. 1 was a bottle of water on a hot day, or a warming tea in the winter to him. On a nice spring day like today, it was maybe a small snack to enjoy out in the cool weather. It wasn't much to many, but a lot to him.

He wasn't the type to sit and wait for charity to rain on him though. That was why he did as he did now — carving out tiny sculptures from pieces of wood he found discarded or fallen on his travels. He'd wash them in the sinks of public bathrooms, let them dry in the sun, then cut them into all sorts of things.

Today, he was absently working on a Komodo dragon from the information his book had given him, sitting fairly comfortably as the world was rolling by in front of him. Occasionally, he looked up to observe the city, unfamiliar as it was to him. He was of the habit of moving between seasons to new towns and places, never staying too long in one place. The beginning of spring brought him here, though he hadn't much mind to know exactly where _here _was. Perhaps he'd take a walk later, find the city's name declared proudly somewhere no doubt.

The doorway Jorah was sitting in was sandwiched between a closed-down shop, (a common sight these days, and often the better to sit near without being shooed away), and a charity shop of all things. Across the road, he could see an archway for a train station with plenty of people bustling in and out, and next to it, a very well-placed coffee shop. No doubt they did very good business from grumpy students and time-starved businesswomen commuting to and from their jobs and lessons. He didn't pay it much further mind, however — it was far from a greasy spoon, where he might have found a cheap cup of coffee, and looked more like the sort of place where the menu would be only slightly easier to follow than the average Ikea furniture instructions, and end up costing about as much as new furniture too…

Finishing up his work, Jorah set the little komodo dragon down on a small, ragged cloth next to his begging bowl. He loathed to call it such, but it was what it was. The little wooden sculptures stood next to it like tiny guardians, catching the eye of some and even coaxing people to exchange a few words with him from time-to-time. He let people take one and pay what they could, and found it usually coaxed a few more pennies from pockets than merely asking for change. Plus, the act of carving whiled away the days, kept his mind and hands busy and for some brief moments, made him forget.

It made him forget for a moment how worthless he felt.

* * *

The sun was setting, the cold drawing in, and now began the brief time between work and nightlife where the city began to fall quiet. A calm before a horrible storm, Jorah knew. That it was a weekday meant little. In a few hours, these streets would be a throng of drunks and party-goers, judging him for their assumption that he would only spend their spare change on drugs or alcohol.

More people could mean more charity sent his way, but more often than not, it lead to things being thrown at him, items being taken, his sculptures being smashed, or worse. Jorah did not like to risk it, and no matter which city or town he was in, he liked to find somewhere to settle down for the night away from view before the nightlife began. He'd find a park bench, or somewhere beneath an old bridge perhaps…

So it was that the man began to pack away his things, wrapping the sculptures up within the cloth they had been standing on. One tumbled out as he lifted the makeshift wrap-parcel, skittering out onto the pavement. As he reached, another hand came down to scoop up the wayward wooden creature. Jorah quickly recoiled back, pulling his hand in and looking up at the woman who had stopped the sculpture from clattering into the road.

Short in stature, the woman effortlessly stood out thanks to a swathe of near-silver white hair that she current wore up in a braided bun, though telltale loose strands showed she had been working much of the day. Her branded shirt was visible from her open-fronted coat and marked her as a worker from the coffee shop across the street, no doubt having just finished for the day and heading home. She took but a moment to look at the creature Jorah had carved, which he realised now was the same komodo dragon he had only finished working on that day, before turning to him and holding it out, leaning down to do so.

"Oh, er," Jorah stuttered, being careful to take the item without touching her hand. "...Thank you."

She gave him a small smile then, but nothing more. Off she went down the road, huddling her grey coat a little closer against the evening chill. Jorah found himself looking along after her, though he quickly turned away. A nice gesture, one both would soon forget.

As he turned away, however, his eyes settled on a purse lying on the ground in front of him. Black leather printed in the image of scales, a silver zip — picking it up confirmed enough to Jorah that it had money in. He looked down the road after the silver-haired woman. It might have been hers, for it wasn't there before she had stopped to hand him his sculpture back. Perhaps it had fallen out of her coat pocket as she bent over?

Jorah cursed under his breath; he was an idiot for not simply keeping it, and chasing after her could frighten the poor woman. He got to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and walked a little up the street, keeping a fair distance.

"Excuse me, miss?" He called, though she didn't answer. Gods, he didn't want to alarm her...but he followed on, waiting until she got to a roadside and thankfully, in looking left and right, caught sight of him. She paused, frowned, and took an earphone out slowly before her eyes settled on the purse he held up and towards her. He hoped the gesture would prevent her from jumping to the conclusion that he'd pickpocketed her.

The broad smile that came after frantically patting her coat pocket seemed to show it did, and she hurried over to him.

"Thank you so much! I didn't even feel it fall out..." she admitted, taking the purse from him and opening it. His heart sunk — it was wise of her, of course, to check he hadn't taken anything. But it didn't lessen the sting. "Here."

She thrust out her hand, a ten pound note between her fingers. "Coffee shop wages, I'm afraid."

Jorah stood back then, even though his logical mind screamed at him as he declined with a shake of his head. "No, no, it's fine. I couldn't."

The silver-haired woman frowned. "But you're—"

"Homeless? Yes...but...I can't accept money for—"

_Basic human decency?_ His mind offered dryly.

After a moment, the woman pulled her hand back, looking thoughtful. "You...you were sitting opposite the cafe today. Will you be there tomorrow?"

"Hopefully. Ah—maybe," he corrected himself quickly, worrying the former choice of words sounded a little much. But the woman smiled, tucking her purse into her pocket a keeping her hand in her pocket to ensure it stayed put this time.

"I'm opening the shop tomorrow. If you see me, come over. At least let me make you a coffee as thanks before the customers come in."

Jorah couldn't help it — he found himself smiling at this, and quickly looked down at the ground. Why had _he _done this good deed then? Just to feel good about himself?

Was he still allowed to be so selfish?

"That's very kind of you. Then I'll hopefully see you in the morning."

With that, the silver-haired woman turned away with a wave and set off for home, leaving Jorah to inwardly curse himself for not at least asking her name.


End file.
